


if you only knew what the future holds

by greenbucket



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Fireworks, Found Family, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-30 01:35:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12643464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greenbucket/pseuds/greenbucket
Summary: I wanted Nightingale to know he had people that cared about him, in their own way, struck by the loneliness in his voice in the library the other day.





	if you only knew what the future holds

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Bonfire Night everyone! 
> 
> Set in some vague time in canon, plus I took some liberties with Southwark Park fireworks; I don't think they have rides.
> 
> Yes, the title is from Katy Perry's _Firework_. I'm ashamed of myself, too.
> 
> Unbeta'd.

As if Toby wasn’t already enough of a little doggy weirdo, when fireworks started to go off at least once a night starting the week before Halloween he barely even twitched an ear. I was pretty sure he was supposed to be shitting behind every piece of ancient furniture in the Folly, or at least cowering and requiring some extensive ear scratching to soothe him as the screech-boom of fireworks echoed across the sky.

After five or so went off, he trotted over to the nearest library window with some interest as if he wanted to watch the fireworks himself, but seemed overall unimpressed by the lacklustre and premature display and went to curl up asleep again. I looked over to Nightingale to give him a _guess_ _that’s our weird not-magic dog, am I right?_ look, only he hadn’t been looking at Toby.

He’d gone very still, and his mouth was a tense line all turned down at the corners. He was still focused on the book in front of him but he didn’t seem to be taking any of it in and he looked tired in a deep-set way, like he was suddenly feeling all of his years.

I waited for the next round of early fireworks to pass before I asked, “Everything all right, sir?”

He came back to the present a little slowly, but his voice was steady when he spoke, if a little quieter than usual. “I’m quite all right, Peter.” After a moment he continued, “I used to leave town for a bit around this time of year to avoid all the noise, but I assure you I can handle it just fine now.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling stupid. Descriptions like _explosion_ and _like gunfire_ did come to mind when talking about fireworks, but I’d never really connected that with everything Nightingale had experienced. “I promise I won’t burn the place down if you leave me for a week or two.”

Nightingale’s smile was more of a grimace, but it was something. His shoulders looked less tense and he didn’t flinch as a firework went off with a particularly loud bang. “You say that now, Peter,” he said, looking doubtful, “but I seem to remember having to write up quite a few explanations for quite a bit of property damage in your file.”

It was that ambulance, still haunting me all these years later, I knew it. I also knew that Nightingale was trying to gently tell me to drop it; he could handle London on Bonfire Night. I decided to trust him to make his own judgements about it.

“I do wish I could actually see the displays, though,” Nightingale continued after a few minutes of resumed researching. “They had quite the show of it at Casterbrook.” He almost sounded wistful.

I’d used to go to a display every year with a couple of mates from school way back when – hauling ourselves all the way over the river to the free one in Blackheath, mind – and more lately with Lesley to wherever seemed a good shout. But those weren’t memories to dwell on.

“Can’t get tickets?” I asked, because God knew some of these things could practically sell out before you’d had a second to reach for your wallet and I didn’t think Nightingale was the most savvy of those attempting.

“I’ve never tried,” Nightingale replied. “I can hardly bring Molly with me, not that I think she’d like fireworks particularly.”

And if that wasn’t an embarrassingly sad and lonely state of affairs, I didn’t know what was. Nightingale sitting alone in the Folly year on year, ready to face his fears and get some fun out of the whole spectacle again, but no one to go with but Molly who was bound to the Folly. I struggled for something bracing to say but came up short.

“Not that we have the time for that kind of thing,” Nightingale said, bracing enough for the both of us. “Best get back to your reading, Peter, or those gnomes will make sure no one gets to any kind of bonfire event.”

I returned to the eye-wateringly dry and dense account of some Folly-member-of-old’s encounter with a middling sized hoard of gnomes. They had been quite intent on hacking his ankles with kitchen knives at last count, but he’d managed to make even that sound actively boring and that was with me holding some genuine interest in the case. Maybe in future there could be some kind of course on how to write interestingly for whoever recorded what the Folly was up to these days.

At least Nightingale seemed engaged in his own reading, even if he still wasn’t quite right. I made a mental note to look up fireworks displays once I was back in the tech cave, lest the guilt of leaving Nightingale to stew in memories of all his friends dying and then missing out on fireworks for a good couple of decades straight hang over me for weeks. Maybe I could make a little trip of it, bring a few people along and fulfil my social activity quota for the month before the next magical disaster swamped my time for a fortnight. After all, who didn’t like some fireworks?

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m not coming with you to that,” Beverley said immediately when I phoned her up a few days later and asked if she’d like to come along.

“Why not?” I asked, affronted by how quickly she’d decided.

“Southwark gets about 50,000 people going, it’s like £10 a ticket, and I don’t care about fireworks,” she listed with ease, which was fair considering they were all very reasonable points. “And I’m busy that night, anyway. River stuff.”

I tried to sigh like a disappointed adult, rather than sounding huffy. “Fine, enjoy doing whatever it is. Will you be free before then?”

Beverley hummed and after a pause like she was checking her calendar said, “I’m clear all of Tuesday, you should come over. Why don’t you invite Sahra?”

"To come with me on Tuesday?"

Now it was Beverley's turn to sigh. "Threesomes aren't really my thing. I meant to the fireworks."

I let her know that was a good idea and hung up to call Sahra.

“Sorry, I already said I’d go to the free show in Blackheath,” Sahra said.

“Seriously?” I said, because getting to Blackheath had been a bit of an adventure when I was fifteen, but it made my temples throb to think of now. Maybe I was just getting old. “I know you make enough to spend a tenner on some fireworks.”

“Sorry,” Sahra said again. “Can’t you and Nightingale just go with each other? I thought you two were friends.”

I didn’t want to explain that I’d hoped a larger group would have made Nightingale feel more comfortable and more like the days of old with his magical crew, so instead I said, “Yeah, I suppose. Say hi to your brother for me,” because Sahra always did Bonfire Night with her brother, rather than her entire troop of siblings.

“Oh. Well. I’m going with Michael, actually,” Sahra said in a rush, sounding embarrassed and pleased.

“Michael…?”

Like a question, “Michael Cheung?”

I managed to splutter something or other but by then she’d hung up on me. I blinked at the phone screen for a minute, my mind effectively a long string of question marks, then shrugged it off. If their relationship could last a trip on the godforsaken DLR, then my hat was off to them both.

I scrolled up and down the page for the tickets to the Southwark display for a bit, thinking. It would be roughly 17 quid altogether for just me and Nightingale to go, which was absurd yet classic London, but I didn’t want it just to be the two of us. I wanted Nightingale to know he had people that cared about him, in their own way, struck by the loneliness in his voice in the library the other day. And I didn’t want him to know it was all my idea. It made me feel naked and vulnerable to think of him knowing that I’d gone out of my way to organise the whole thing.

For one slightly hysterical moment, I considered inviting Stephanopoulos. The thought of it alone nearly struck me dead where I sat.

My phone buzzed with a text in my hand as I scrolled hopelessly up and down my contacts.

**Abigail**  
ur going to southwark????????? without inviting me??????? :((

And then before I could type out a response, which I was thinking would be something along the lines of ‘how in the fuck did you find that out?’ but censored for minors, my phone buzzed again.

**Abigail**  
just get one of those fam tix before it all sells out and bring me and my friends along B) B) B)

I didn’t want to say anything as cruel as that as far as I was aware she didn’t have many friends at all, so I told her to check with her parents it was all right before I went spending money on anything. She replied in thirty seconds, definitely not enough time for her to have asked her parents.

**Abigail**  
they’re all good w it, promise. we’ll meet u at russell square station at 5!

And that was that decided, even though I wasn’t sure herding a bunch of teenagers to a fireworks show was going to match up to Nightingale’s memories of things and I hadn’t even asked him if it was something he wanted to do yet. I wished I could bring the Asbo instead of brave the tube, for myself and Nightingale, but I knew parking would be a nightmare. So long as it wasn't a sticking point for Nightingale I could manage it.

Maybe I could get Stephanopoulos to come along for a laugh as the second adult, if Nightingale really put his foot down.

 

* * *

 

 

Luckily for my health and job prospects, Nightingale did not put his foot down.

“In Southwark Park?” he asked, after I’d explained the plan to him over breakfast (carefully posing it as a favour I was doing for Abigail’s parents, of course).

“It’s supposed to be one of the best ones,” I said. As one of the most popular, I’d also thought it would be good grounding for Nightingale to see all the people happy and safe, if freezing their extremities off, while explosions went on overhead, but I didn't tell him that. “I’ve already got the ticket.”

“Oh, well, I suppose if it’s already been bought,” he said. He seemed casual but he looked like he’d be smiling if he wasn’t chewing bacon, and Molly gave me extra helpings without any kind of menace at dinner that night even though I’d left her inedible stew uneaten, so I could only conclude I must have made the right decision.

The night of the show was bitterly cold. My hands had ached even wearing gloves just from taking Toby for a walk earlier in the day, and by the time Nightingale and I set off for the tube there wasn’t even the sun to help out the temperature at least a little bit. I could see my breath in front of me, and while Nightingale looked dashing in a fancy scarf and there was a spring in his step, he did wince rather loudly when a cold breeze swept down the street.

Abigail and the two other kids with her she’d managed to drag along were so wrapped up even in the relative warmth of the station that it was almost comical. She didn’t introduce me or Nightingale to her friends, just dragged us off through the ticket gates and down the escalators, jumping on a tube about to leave the station and nearly getting us all squished in the doors. We switched at Green Park for the Jubilee line and got off at Canada Water with a crowd of other people, all of us headed for the park.

“We can go on the rides and get sweets before it starts, can’t we, Peter?” Abigail asked as we neared the park and I had to fumble around in my pocket for the tickets. Before I could reply, she was chirping, “Thanks!” and planning what rides and what terribly unhealthy foods with her friends. They did seem to like her at least somewhat genuinely, which was a relief.

The park was packed and hard to navigate in the flashes between light and dark between stalls and colourful lights. It was somehow still freezing despite all the bodies and food being cooked.

“Meet me back here by this tree at 7:15, okay?” I instructed Abigail loudly. She was nodding but I wasn’t sure she could hear or was listening. “If you need anything, phone me immediately.” She rolled her eyes at that, but she gave me an affectionate enough pat on the arm before running off with her friends into the crowd.

“Are you positive that’s wise?” Nightingale asked, watching them go.

I wasn’t, but I shrugged. “They’ll be fine, this place has security up to the gills.”

Nightingale gave a conceding nod but didn’t move on through the crowd. He looked a little overwhelmed, in all honesty, and I felt a little bad for evidently not emphasising for him enough just how large an event it was.

“Come on, let’s get something hot to drink before we get frostbite,” I said, leading the way over to the nearest drinks stall and ordering us two teas. The cups were flimsy enough I was sure there would be more than a few complaints of burns from scalding tea for the council to deal with before the night was through, and the little side table of sugars and napkins was already a disaster, but I managed to doctor both our drinks as we liked them and handed Nightingale’s over.

It was a modicum quieter out of the thick of the crowds, and the overwhelmed expression had made way for the excitement again on Nightingale's face. Not even the immense blandness of the tea seemed to ruin it for him, and I tried to squash some of the horrible happy pride I was feeling in the general chest area.

After he’d taken his fill of the people and the stalls and the lights from where we were standing, he turned to me. “What shall we do now?” he asked.

“We’re going to buy enough overpriced sweets to last til Christmas,” I told him solemnly, and we headed off for the stalls. There were stations selling savouries too, which looked and smelled surprisingly appetising considering they were largely staffed by white people, but we’d already been served dinner by Molly before we left. Instead I made sure we stocked up on fudges and caramels, lollipops and strawberry laces, a few softer pastry-like items; enough to last me a long while these days, my sweet tooth slowly decaying as it was.

I insisted on introducing Nightingale to churros, and he went along easily. His first bite looked like a revelation, and I let him keep the tub to himself as we moved into the arts section. There were some sculptures that looked fairly interesting, but probably would have been better in daylight and I could tell they weren’t of much interest to Nightingale, so we started to make our way back to the tree where we’d agreed to meet Abigail.

The crowds were so large for the fireworks that there was no way we would be near the front, but there wasn’t a need since the most interesting ones would be going up in the sky anyway. Me and Nightingale elbowed and shoved a little so at least our view wasn’t blocked by any trees and we weren’t near anyone too rowdy or irritating, Abigail gripping my hand and her two friends following behind in a chain. I made sure the kids were in front of me and Nightingale, so I could keep an eye on them, the three of them somehow all managing to stand on my numb toes at one point or another as they shuffled around.

There were a few minutes of waiting, loud dubstep playing obnoxiously, before the first firework went up. It was a quiet one, more of a sizzle and pop than a screech and bang, but the crowd still ooh-ed and they aah-ed right on time as the next went up and sent bright pink sparks out in crossing lines across the sky. There were a couple of those, then the next few were the kind that fountained upwards from the ground and were generally a bit crap unless you were at the very front, but everyone knew that was only build up for the bigger ones to come.

Abigail and her friends were too enraptured and too busy taking pictures to notice, or maybe it was just because we were shoulder to shoulder in the crowd, but I could feel Nightingale beginning to tense in anticipation of the louder fireworks. I thought about saying something, but I hardly wanted to draw everyone else’s attention to it and to be honest I didn’t know what to say, talking about it not really being my style. I pressed my shoulder against his on purpose instead, and when he looked across I tried to make my expression as reassuring as possible.

It must have worked at least a little because he looked grateful and relaxed a little, returning his attention to the few sparks from the ground fireworks that we could see all the way back where we were. When the next firework went up with a whistling sound and then exploded outwards with a loud crack, a weeping-willow style shower of golden sparks raining down, Nightingale only flinched a little. When I glanced over as surreptitiously as I could, he was watching the last sparks fade with a look of open and simple wonder, and that was when I knew I’d made the right decision arranging the trip and could really relax into watching the show.

It was a good display – as I’d bloody hope for the price of the tickets – with the fireworks almost continuous, red and yellow and blue and pink and white and purple and green against the black sky and the booms loud enough that I could feel them in my chest and in my feet against the ground. There were ones that were endless popping flashes and the classics that exploded outwards like dying planets, one even into the shape of Saturn with its rings, and there were several more weeping willows. The final set went on for a good minute straight of overlapping bursts of light, and by the end of it Nightingale’s face was open and delighted, the kids’ phones were at storage capacity, and I felt weirdly light on my feet and warm in my chest despite the freezing temperatures.

It was a job well done.

Navigating towards the exit after everyone had had their fill watching the smoke fade away in the sky was hellish, of course. I grabbed Nightingale’s hand in one hand and Abigail’s in the other and the chain started anew, because I could not be arsed with having to fight my way over to the information point if I lost anyone. The tube of course was also packed, and me and Nightingale were taking Abigail and her friends all the way back to Kentish Town because it was late, so we had to change at London Bridge and it took forever. All of which brought me back to ground, but I still felt all fuzzy in my heart.

“This was actually really cool,” Abigail said as we reached the door of her flat, Nightingale charged with the other two. I hadn’t knocked yet, and Abigail hadn’t moved to get her key.

“You sound surprised,” I said.

She shrugged. “Just thought it might be fun to have something to do, you know I get bored. But it was actually fun. Next year?”

Privately, I thought she’d probably be too old by next year for her parents to think it necessary she be accompanied by an adult or for her to think it wasn't unbearably uncool, but it was a nice idea. Anything to try and keep her out of magic at least a little bit. “If you want,” I said.

Abigail grinned and slipped her key into the lock and said, brightly, “Great, there are some pixies in Southwark Park that only come out on Bonfire Night, I want to talk to them again. See you around!”

I stared at the door that had just got shut in my face, considering whether to follow that up because I had no idea how she’d talked to pixies with her sort-of-friends there when she shouldn't be doing that at all, but then I put it aside for the night at least. That was for next year Peter to deal with.

Nightingale was waiting for me at the bottom of the block, a little more his usual contained self but still bright around the edges. We set off for the tube again, and God did I wish the Asbo was here instead, but at least it was a bit quieter by now, so we weren’t squashed against the doors as we got on and the change at King’s Cross was easy enough. We were both quiet, but I think it was more how surprisingly knackered we were from what was an easy-going evening for us than because of anything else. Nightingale hadn’t got that deep-tired, tense look at any point in the evening, even when some home fireworks had gone off while we’d been walking to Kentish Town station, so that was good.

The Folly was dark and quiet when we got back, some non-perishables left out by Molly in the breakfast room, in case we were hungry I imagined, but Molly herself nowhere to be seen. I had a sneaking suspicion she was in the tech cave, doing whatever it was online that she did in there while no one else was around. Nightingale took one cup of still-warm tea with him for bed, but the rest was left; we’d gorged ourselves far too much on sweets for anything else.

As we parted ways for the night, Nightingale stopped and said, surprisingly and embarrassingly earnest for him, “Thank you for arranging that and taking me along, Peter.”

I knew it was a thank you for more than just the trip to Southwark on the tube and a firework display I’d had no hand in organising. It wasn’t like I could say that I knew that though, so instead I said, “That’s no problem, sir.”

It seemed to be enough. If Nightingale weren’t so British, I’m sure he would have looked touched, and if we weren’t both so British, I’m sure at this point we would have hugged and shared a heart to heart about overcoming past traumas and loneliness and the power of love.

As it was, Nightingale just smiled a little, and I knew that what I’d done had said enough. “Goodnight, Peter.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

The fireworks went on until at least two in the morning around us, because people lose all respect for social norms when it comes to fireworks, but I found I didn’t mind too much.


End file.
